Page 20 of The Devil Gets His Due

“Ditto.”

His mouth tilts into a smug smile. “I assumed that weekend was par for the course for you.”

“You’re awfully judgy for a guy who got so drunk you don’t even remembermarryingme. To be honest, it implies you might have some issues with alcohol.”

His jaw falls open. “Youdon’t remember either.”

“And now you’re deflecting blame, which is also a sign of alcoholism.”

He laughs quietly. “Will murdering you be a third sign?”

I hold the menu in front of my face. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be an argumentagainstit.”

The waiter returns with our water. Graham and I both order the New York Strip, served in a red-wine reduction, except he asks for spinach in lieu of fries. It feels like a criticism, and I bet I’m in for more. I bet I’m in for a whole lifetime of him silently but obviously doing things better than I do and gloating about it.

“You seem tense,” Graham says.

“I came here straight from work. It takes me a minute to unwind.”

“It’s seven-thirty.” His brow furrows. “I hope your boss realizes you won’t be able to work this late going forward.”

Oh, here we go. The inevitable discussion where he points out all the ways I’m not cut out for this. Where he produces a graph showing me how badly I’m about to fail.

“Don’t,” I warn. “This is all new to me and I’m figuring it out. But this is a kid, not something you can plug into an actuarial table and—”

He makes a noise—it’s a laugh or a growl, I’m not sure which. “For the last time, I do not use actuarial tables. What is it, exactly, that you think I do?”

“Something with money? Taxes? I think I just tend to lump all the boring professions into one.”

He takes a sip of his water. “I tell people what to do with their money.”

A basket of bread is delivered to the table, and I tear into it, trying not to groan volubly. “That still sounds like taxes to me.”

“You need a CPA to do taxes,” he says.

“So, what I hear you saying is that you’re notsmart enoughto do taxes.”

He makes that noise again. I’m pretty sure it’s a laugh, but this time it also sounds an awful lot like a prolonged, weary sigh. “Yes, Keeley, you’ve nailed it. Anyway, I’ve spent the week thinking about this situation and, well, you didn’t want kids, and—”

“I didn’t,” I say, cutting him off. “But I want this one. And you didn’t want kids either.”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I get the oddest feeling that something just changed, and I have no idea what it was. “I didn’t. But I want this one,” he says softly. “So maybe I should move in, just until you give birth.”

I swallow the bread in my mouth so rapidly I nearly choke. “Move in,” I say blankly. “You mean…withme?”

“Yeah, I can work from LA for a while. At least until the baby comes. And it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“In what possible way does you moving into a stranger’s one-bedroom apartment make sense?”

“Keeley, you have a second bedroom and none of the shit in that ‘closet’ is going to fit you in a month anyway.”

Oh no he didn’t.

I draw myself up straight, politely returning the rest of my bread to my plate. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “You realize how pregnancy works, right? Your stomach is going to get bigger.All of youis going to get bigger. And I’ve seen how you dress. I’m guessing your closet doesn’t abound with loose clothing.”

Wow, just…wow. “Are you trying to say my clothes areslutty?”

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